Outs
by coolbyrne
Summary: A quiet moment with Sara gives Grissom a chance to figure things out. (Sorry, not a baseball fic!)


TITLE: Outs

AUTHORS: coolbyrne and papiliondae

CATEGORY: GSR

RATING: The very generic PG.

SPOILERS: BoP, PNN, OHW, C&B (Crash, not Crate)

DISCLAIMER: This is fiction. To possibly imagine I/we have anything to do with CSI, Grissom and/or Sara in any way would be the best piece of fiction ever. No money, no ownership, no hope of either. Damn.

DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, by all means.

FEEDBACK: Compliments/constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Flames will be mocked in other forums. Send any combination of the above to: fugitive@ihateclowns.com and/or papiliondae@yahoo.com 

AUTHORS' NOTE: (coolbyrne) Kudos, props, word, multiple bows in the direction of WP and JF who, by their very portrayals, inspire. And to my fellow writer, papiliondae- I've learned to like the colour red. (papiliondae) I thoroughly enjoyed the experience!

SUMMARY: A quiet moment with Sara gives Grissom a chance to figure things out. (Sorry, not a baseball fic!)

*

Compared to the usual pace of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, this night shift was relatively slow. Warrick and Catherine were working a hit and run scene. Nick had the night off. And Sara was somewhere in the building waiting on the results from a DNA swab. Grissom knew this because Greg had stopped him in the hallway.

"Grissom, I'm about to set a new world record for juggling." Grissom's eyebrows went up. "I'm swamped here. Can you get these results to Sara? She's been waiting for them for hours."

Secretly thankful for any distraction from the drudgery of filling out monthly reports, Grissom took the file and began his search for Sara. It didn't take him long; she was in the first place he looked. The break room. Stretched out, face down on the couch in the break room, to be exact.

He quietly opened the door, aware that she had been pulling extra overtime lately and torn between letting her sleep and the knowledge that she would want to see these results. He settled into an adjacent chair, deciding, not completely selflessly, to give her a few more minutes of peace. Sitting so close, he permitted himself the luxury of looking at her.

Her long, lean frame took up the entire length of the couch, her forearm hanging off the edge as her limbs ran out of space. The other arm was pulled in tight to her body, her hand curled up under her chin. Sometime before falling asleep she must have pushed her hair back, because it was tucked behind her left ear, giving him an unobstructed view of her face. The corner of her mouth twitched every so often and though no sound came out, her lips moved, as if she were working out a problem even in her sleep. He smiled at this.

His gaze slowly traveled the length of her back until, even as he berated himself for his voyeurism, his eyes halted at the small of her back. A patch of skin, bared by the pull of her outstretched arm held him in thrall. As much as he tried, he was unable to tear his eyes away from her tender white flesh. It was as if he were getting a glimpse at a private side of Sara, this woman who in all other aspects he felt he knew, often better than he knew himself. 

The lab was quietly going about its business, which only made these minutes with Sara seem that much more intimate. As he watched her in this private moment, he let himself forget who they were on the surface and dared to imagine how things might be if they simply allowed themselves. Gil and Sara, a man and a woman, instead of supervisor and subordinate.

How long had he spent looking at her over the years, in just the way he continued to gaze at the white band of skin just above her waist? His fingers very nearly tingled at the idea of reaching over and touching this tender hollow. He wondered if one day she would let him have that part of her. If he could lean over, press his lips to that spot and say, "This… this is mine." Would she laugh and give him that concession, or would she balk at the idea of being "claimed", of being "owned". He felt his chest tighten at the fruitlessness of this whim. Not a man partial to flights of fancy, he was amazed at the path his thoughts were taking.

He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly.

'Jesus Christ,' he chastised himself, 'what the hell am I thinking?'

*

He was out of his mind.

That much was clear. This seemed to be the effect she had on him.

'Besides the increase in heart rate, the shallow breathing and the sweaty palms,' he silently added.

He sighed, knowing full well that if he were completely honest with himself it should come as no surprise. After that seminar all those years ago, more years than he cared to remember, they had never lost contact. Whether by letter, email or phone, they had stayed in touch, and that had been enough for him, or so he thought. But there came a time when instead of filling the holes of his life, the letters and the emails and the phone calls only served to point them out.

So when the opportunity to invite her to Las Vegas had arisen, he leapt at it, convinced that just seeing her would quench his emotional thirst. It was simply another band-aid over a gaping wound, but he assured himself it was enough. Enough just to have her near him and no more. Until one day he woke up and found she had left. Sure, she still showed up to work every day, fought the scientific fights side-by-side with him, but for all intents and purposes, at least those that mattered to him, she was gone.

Gone with Hank Pedigrew.

Young. Tall. Strapping. Attentive. Young.

'You said 'young' already,' he corrected himself.

All the things Grissom wasn't. And he had all the things Grissom wanted.

Time. 

And Sara.

*

He was out of time.

As always, the evidence pointed to the guilty party. Grissom. For a man who had a near encyclopaedic memory of words and quotes, a very mundane cliché sprang to mind.

'Actions speak louder than words.'

How could such an overused collection of words be so true?

'Because they are,' he admitted.

And if he was completely truthful with himself, the last two years with Sara were woefully lacking any action on his part.

A plant.

Some shared glances and touches.

An unexpected admission about beauty confessed over a sheet of ice.

'Not much of a case, Gil.'

Yet the small voice for the defence spoke up. He wasn't a demonstrative man, not given to revealing his feelings. She knew that. Hell, everyone knew that. And she could read him so well on every other subject, connect with him intuitively on every other plane. Why not this one? Why was this one so different?

A cold hard fact startled him out of his thoughts. Had it only been a week before that he had told a suspect, at once brilliant and murderous, that the young man's mistake had been the removal of the human element? That his plans were flawed because they had ignored the human element?

Was that now Grissom's mistake, too? Had he set up these scenarios in his mind, all the while ignoring the human element? There was one very good reason Sara couldn't read him or connect with him. Maybe she simply didn't feel the same.

*

She was out of reach.

More importantly, she was out of his reach.

He was amazed how quickly the burning sensation developed behind his eyes.

'Tears. That's rich, Gil.' He pinched his nose even tighter.

"You okay?"

He jumped at the voice from the couch.

"Sorry," she apologized, before repeating, "you okay?"

Dropping his hand from his face, he sighed and answered, "Yeah. Just lulled by the silence."

Sara sat up and brushed her fingers through her hair. Guiltily looking down at the comfortable cushions of the couch, she sheepishly admitted, "Yeah, me, too."

"It's okay," he smiled, "it's been a quiet night. Besides, I know you've been putting in more than your fair share of overtime in the last week. Even by Sidle standards." When she didn't meet his gaze, his eyes narrowed as he replayed the remark in his head. Then he repeated it out loud. "You've been putting in more than your fair share of overtime in the last week." He stressed the word 'more'.

"I saw your timesheet before shift tonight. We're only nine days into the pay period, and you've already got 109 hours. Not counting tonight."

She closed her eyes. Maybe if she couldn't see him she wouldn't have to hear him.

"You keep track of everyone's work habits?"

Ignoring her, he went on. "You didn't take your scheduled days off." Seeing her shrug, he asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Grissom hesitated, unsure whether to accept her rebuff. But the intimacy of sitting here with her while she slept was fresh in his mind and encouraged him to continue.

"You know," he began, "I'm not so far removed from the human condition that I can't be a good listener." A wry smile crept onto her face. "Is there… is there anything wrong, Sara?"

Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long sigh. "No."

He bit the inside of his bottom lip, pondering her answer. With an abrupt nod of the head, he stood up and handed Sara the file that had been resting on his lap. 

"Okay," he said. "Here are the results of those DNA samples you gave to Greg."

He turned to the door, back to the mountain of paperwork on his desk. "Grissom." Her subdued tone got his attention. At his silent prod for her to continue, she said, "I wish… I wish sometimes you didn't give up so easily."

His brow beetled in puzzlement, but he retraced his steps backward and sat down in the chair. "I'm not so far removed from the human condition that I can't be a good listener. Is there anything wrong, Sara?" he repeated verbatim.

He was startled when her face dropped, a comment he thought would draw a smile instead resulting in distress. Scratching an imaginary spot on her jeans, she quietly admitted, "I, uh, I broke up with Hank."

Grissom was surprised to find he got little satisfaction from this news. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

She looked up into his eyes. "I know." Her focus drifted away from him, she looked out of the window and into the hallway and her voice when she spoke again was distant, "It turns out I wasn't quite what he wanted."

"Then he's an idiot."

Sara's head jerked back at the vehemence in his voice. Before her wide eyes could meet his again, he stood up and made his way to the coffee machine.

"Can I make you a cup?" he asked.

Still startled by his short outburst, she simply nodded and said, "Yeah."

She twisted round to look at him, leaning her elbow on the back of the couch and resting her chin in her palm. "I guess to be fair, he wasn't really what I wanted, either."

He wondered if she noticed the hesitation in the rhythmic sound of the spoon stirring the coffee. Pouring his own cup, and more calmly than he felt, he asked, "And just what is it that you want, Sara?"

He turned, a coffee cup in each hand, to find her staring at him.

Reaching across she took a cup from his hand and attempted to lighten the mood. "Why? You have someone in mind?"

Grissom took his time to walk back round and sit down, giving himself a moment to formulate a response. Caution urged him to take the easy out she was offering but instinct pressed him to at least start trying to negotiate the shifting sands of their relationship. "I don't know, Sara, only you know that." His expression was carefully neutral but his eyes betrayed the merest hint of anxiety.

She sighed, "I'm not so sure of that anymore," her index finger lightly traced the seam on the arm of the couch, "Like you said, you never really know anyone."

"Sara…" he swallowed hard, "maybe.. I was wrong." Her eyes flicked up to his for a moment. "It's easy to lose sight of who people really are. Perhaps it's more a case of not forgetting what you know."

She stilled, considering his words, then raised her eyes to his. Grissom felt the jolt of their connection and wondered how he'd gotten by without it for so long. Her lips tilted in a small smile, "I guess you could be right." She lifted her coffee cup and took a tentative sip and he wondered at the cause of the frown that passed over her face.

Suddenly he wanted to see her smile again, his lips twitched, "Either that or if you play your cards right, I'm sure I could set you up with Greg."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah! That's what I'm looking for. A guy who looks like he just fell out of the dryer." She laughed.

  
Grissom smiled and took a sip of his coffee.

"Ah! This is horrible!"

"Oh, good," she said, "I thought it was just me."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to see if yours tasted bad, too."

"I bet you smell the suspicious milk and get someone else to taste it first, too."

She shrugged. "So?"

He could only shake his head as she laughed, warming the room with the sound.

"We should go out," he said at last.

Sara's eyebrows jumped. "What?"

"Coffee," he corrected. "We should go out for coffee. Get some coffee. This stuff isn't fit to be consumed by any living organism."

"You sure the boss won't mind me going for coffee on company time?"

He smirked. "I'm sure the boss, realising the company coffee could drop an elephant, would be grateful for such a wonderful service on your part. And since the boss is going with you, he can't really say all that much, can he?"

"I love how your mind works." She stood up, unfolding herself from the couch, "I'll just grab my jacket. Meet you out front?"

"Yeah." He followed her long stride with his eyes as she headed down the hallway, then he picked up their coffee cups while turning the conversation over in his mind. Sifting through each tiny grain of information with no immediate answer evident. But he did have one vital piece of this puzzle; he did have time. That was a start.


End file.
